Vindictable


Vindictable

 Do not have fear, rather deep respect

for the power of the sea

My crashing waves and giant swells

demand to remain free

Don’t build your wall around my sands

I’ll crush them to the ground

I own the beaches and the shores

as others sorely found

Just when you think you have control

when everything’s divine

I’ll reach my arms around your best

“till you recognize it’s mine

 

by Diane How

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Life Preservers


Hurricanes Harvey and Irma left thousands of people homeless and in desperate need of assistance. Well deserved attention was given to the humanitarian efforts by those who helped provide food, clothing, shelters and money to the victims.

The heroes who saved and sheltered thousands of animals during these tragic times deserve a round of applause, too. Thank you, wherever you are.

Here is a short story I wrote after a flood some years ago in Missouri. I hope you enjoy it.

 

Life Preservers

 

River Rats. That’s the name for people who live near the river, refusing to give in to the unpredictable vengeance of Mother Nature that sometimes makes life challenging. My master, Jessie, is a river rat. Not sure what that makes me, but I live with him along the Mississippi near a dam in Missouri. His house sits on stilts as tall as some of the nearby trees. I’m Clyde, a yellow lab who lives in a large kennel next to Jessie, but on the ground…well most of the time, anyway.

Living by the river is fun for the most part. Jessie takes me along when he hunts because I can pick up the scent of other animals faster with my keen nose. When I spot something, I chase it until it runs into a bush or a corner and can’t get out. Sometimes they get away, but most of the time Jessie takes it from there. I do other things too, like protecting Jessie by warning him if something seems out of the ordinary. One time, I even saved his life by fighting a water moccasin that snuck out of the rocks by the boat dock. Jessie gave me some extra treats after that and patted my head, which I really liked.

I’m an outside dog. Jessie doesn’t let me in his house, but in the evening as the sun goes down, I get to pounce up the stairs and sit on the porch while we watch these big boats, think they’re called barges. They shine their bright lights to the right and left as they inch forward toward the dam. Jessie doesn’t care for it when they shine the lights on us. He gets mad and yells at them, but they still do it anyway.

Winter’s ok because I get to go hunting. Spring used to be my favorite time because there are more things to sniff, like rabbits and field mice. Last year changed that. Mother Nature forgot to turn off the faucet. Once the rain started, it didn’t stop. Days turned into weeks and the continuous pelting began to irritate me. I had to eat fast or else my food would float in water and get mushy. I hate that. I also missed our special time together on the porch and the extra treat he gave me before putting me back in my kennel when it got dark.

I never shirked my duties though. I kept an eye out for strangers but no one came over the levee. Seemed all the animals had run off to higher ground, even the birds were gone. No stray cats, no deer. The only movement came from Jessie as he loaded the lawn mower and other things onto a flatbed trailer. I wondered what was up.

The next morning, Jessie filled my bowl with food and patted my head. My tail wagged as fast as my heart beat. I loved it when he petted me. Made me feel good all over. But the feeling quickly passed when he said, “Take it easy buddy.” He got in his truck and drove off, over the levee. I whined for a while, but decided it wouldn’t do any good as no one could hear me.

The rain never stopped and I watched the river’s edge creep closer and closer to my cage. I sniffed every inch of the cage trying to find an opening, then I jumped up and down trying to unlock the gate to get out. I started to panic, barking and pacing continuously, but every time I moved, the kennel weaved up and down making me lose my footing. What the heck? My whole kennel was floating, just like when Jessie takes me fishing.

 

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Just before dark, I saw some movement on the levee. I barked again hoping Jessie had come back for me. It was him and my tail wagged anxiously as he climbed into a boat. He glanced at me, but kept on paddling toward his house, then went up the stairs, dragging a long rope, one end attached to his boat and the other he tied to the porch railing, way at the top. That’s when I began to worry.

The water kept rising and so did my kennel. I tried to stay awake to keep watch but sometime during the night, I dozed off. The next morning a noise startled me awake. I barked, to warn my master just as a large tree branch smacked into my cage. I shook off my slumber and gave another yelp, hoping Jessie would come get me.

Waves tossed my cage up and down and the sudden movement made me stumble. I almost laughed (yes, dogs can laugh), thinking I looked like Jessie when he drinks too many brown bottles, but the seriousness of the situation worried me. I adjusted my footing and paced around the kennel, proud of the balancing skill I learned while riding in our boat.

Hours later, I heard a door shut and Jessie walked halfway down the stairs where the river greeted him and pulled on the rope until the boat was near enough for him to get into it. I watched anxiously as he rowed next to my kennel and unhooked the latch. I stuck my head out trying to get into the boat with him, but he blocked my path.

“Stay,” he commanded as he cleaned out some of the mess in the kennel. Lots of leaves and branches and other stuff I won’t mention covered the floor.

“Kinda scary, huh? You’ll be ok.”

“Scary as hell” I wanted to shout, but could only whimper in reply. He rubbed my ears and then gave me some more food from the large tin can in the corner of the cage.

“This should hold you ‘till I can get back. Gonna be a long ride. Hang in there.”

I had no idea what he meant by that, but I tried again to get past him and into the boat. Surely he’d take me with him. It wasn’t fun being out here all by myself.

“Sorry, Clyde. You have to stay here.”

That didn’t sit well with me, but I didn’t have much choice as he closed the door, then paddled toward the levee. My eyes blurred as I watched my best friend fade from sight.

Later that day, the rain slowed to a drizzle and I walked around the cage trying to work out some of the aching in my legs. I noticed the pads on my paws were getting sore too, so I went into my house and rested. Darkness crept in and my cage continued to rise.

It’d been a long time since I’d seen Jessie or any other creature. Something must have happened to Jessie or he would have come back for me. Hunger made my belly grumble and I remembered the food in the can. Pushing the lid with my nose didn’t work, so I jumped on the can and it fell over, popping the lid off. The food spilled all over. Thankful to be able to eat, I scarfed down as much as I could because I knew the rain water would turn the rest into mush soon.

My body twitched and ached more every day. It got harder to stand up and walk around. I hated the musty smells, even myself. Yuck. I forced myself to sniff around the cage for something to eat. Everything was gone, even the mushy stuff and still no Jessie. Maybe he was hurt. Maybe he needed me.

The water level no longer rose, but it wasn’t going down either. I stared at the levee and decided I might be able to paddle to it, if only I could get out of the kennel. Maybe Jessie was on the other side waiting for me.

The next few hours, I jumped and nudged my nose and teeth at the latch with no success. Worn out from trying to get the gate open, I laid down and fell asleep. Another large branch slammed into my kennel and startled me awake. As I walked around inspecting the damage, I saw a break in the metal links and with renewed spirits, I chewed and pawed until the hole was big enough to escape.

Without food, I wouldn’t last much longer. The decision was made and with one last look around my kennel, I squeezed my body through the opening and made my way into the water. The cold, swift current grabbed me and dragged me away from the levee and the safety of my kennel. Oh, no! What did I do? I paddled furiously trying to get back but within seconds, my doghouse faded from view. I wondered if I’d ever see dry land again, or my buddy.

Exhausted from trying to fight the current, I held my head high, trying to stay above water, and floated with the current. The cold water made my legs stiffen and cramp. My head kept going under and the river threatened to take my last breath, but I fought back with everything I had left. Just then, a large branch floated close enough for me to snag it with my mouth and I managed to get one paw over it, then the other.

After a while, the current slowed and the branch, with me still hanging on it, moved toward the bank and became lodged near a boat dock. I decided I’d had enough of the water ride and managed to pull myself up onto the platform. Tired, but determined to get back home, I climbed one concrete step, legs wobbling, then a second. Near the top, I collapsed, completely spent, but happy to be out of the water. I closed my eyes, trying to slow my breathing as my chest heaved up and down.

***

“Oh my, you poor thing. Where’d you come from?”

The unfamiliar voice stirred me from my sleep. I opened my eyes, yet couldn’t find the strength to lift my head.

“Harold! Come help.”

“What’s wrong Gladys?” a male voice called in the distance.

“It’s a dog. Bring a blanket and help me get him into the house.”

Into the house? Are they’re going to take me into their house?

Harold appeared with a large blanket and wrapped it around my wet fur. I tried to lick his hand in appreciation.

“I think it’s Clyde, Jessie’s dog. I bet that fool left him in his kennel all this time.”

“Oh Harold, do you think so? With all the rain and flooding for weeks on end? How could he do that to a dog?”

“I asked him about Clyde two weeks ago when I saw him in town getting groceries. He told me he was doing fine in his kennel and to mind my own business. Harold reached in the pocket of his bibbed overalls and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping his eyes and dabbing his nose. “I should have gone to check on him myself, but that fool might have shot me for trespassing.”

“That’s horrible, just horrible. You poor dog. You deserve better than that.”

“You’re safe now buddy. Let’s get you in the house and dry you off. We’ll find something good for you to eat and you’ll be up and about in no time.”

Harold grunted as he lifted me and then carried me into his living room, placing me on the warm, soft rug. Gladys appeared with a bowl of water some scraps of meat in her hand.

“Sorry, Clyde. You’ll have to eat table food until we can get into town.”

My eyes widened when I saw what was in her hand. Bacon!

This must be Heaven. I think I’m going to like it here.

The Finishing Touch


This is one of my favorite fiction short stories I’ve written. It features our grand dog as a hero. I hope you enjoy it.

The Finishing Touch

LaptopComputer Finally, I’m going to finish my novel. The thought danced in my head as I packed the last few items in a suitcase. The tattered manuscript, with all its scribbled edges and sticky notes, was already stuffed in a padded pouch with my laptop. Food for a week, essential chocolate and wine stash included, were secured in the oversized cooler. The plan was simple. No television, no internet access, no interruptions. Just me and the computer. Oh, and one sixty-five pound grand dog, Hammie.

Convincing my husband that I could survive alone for a few days in our daughter’s summer home in Missouri at the Lake of the Ozarks required a plan of action. I memorized the exact procedure for turning on and off the water source and for operating the heating unit. Short of using flash cards, I demonstrated on paper that I could recognize and eliminate (or avoid) venomous snakes and spiders. Emergency phone numbers were entered into my speed dial and I promised to call him every evening reassuring him I hadn’t been murdered by a stranger lurking in the woods. At first I rejected his insistence that I take our daughter’s black lab with me. An unspoken sense of insecurity made me agree.hammyA

I appreciated his concerns and knew he would worry until I returned, but my desire to accomplish a task started years earlier pressed me forward. “Our forty-four years of marriage have been a blessing,” I reasoned with my spouse, “but a week of independence to complete my first novel is a necessity.” He didn’t share my passion for writing, but he respected it.
Splashes of crimson dappled the nearly bare hills, the result of nibbling cold fronts that visited the area the past few weeks. I made a brief pit stop in Kingdom City to stretch my legs and empty my bladder. Of course my four-legged friend needed to do the same. As he stopped and sniffed every few feet, I laughed, remembering my daughter’s warning that he’d want to check his “pee mail” too.

Back on the road, I sang along with Willie Nelson as he strummed his guitar to On The Road Again. Hammie stared out the window. I swear he shook his head as if to remind me I can’t carry a note. Too bad. My car, my rules. Soon, the billboards boasted the many venues near Bagnell Dam, my exit. The sparsely populated countryside reminded me of cherished excursions in my grandpa’s ‘57 Ford Fairlane. The blacktop road twisted and turned for the next twenty minutes. I slowed to a crawl at the last turn where the tree covered road narrowed to one lane. At the crest of a hill, I made a sharp left onto the graveled driveway where the red wood A-frame, greeted me.

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I turned off the engine and set the parking brake. Leaves blanketed the ground all the way down the steep hill to the water’s edge. No cars or neighbors were visible at the other few cabins that shared the remote cove. “Looks like we got the place to ourselves, Hammie.” His tail wagged approval as I attached his leash and helped him leap from the car. He tugged hard, ready to romp. “You can’t run free until I set up the wireless fence. Sorry buddy. With the door key in one hand and the lead in the other, I unlocked the door and entered my sanctuary.

First order of business was kicking up the heat. I pulled up the shades on the dozen windows that enclosed the Florida room to allow sun to filter in. “You’ll have to wait inside while I unpack the car.” Hammie whined and showed me his best pitiful look. “Save the guilt. It doesn’t work on me, remember?” As if he understood my announcement, he sauntered into the sun room.

Three trips to the car finished the task and I decided it was time for a break for both of us. I filled Hammie’s bowl with water and tucked a dog treat in my pocket, a bribe in case it was needed later to get him back inside. After flipping the switch on the wireless contraption, I picked up the second collar and slipped it in place. Long ago I resolved that I’d never fully understand how the machine knew how far a ninety-foot circumference was and how it could relate it to an animal. “Time to breathe in a little of this country air, buddy.” Hammie’s tail wag and pitiful moan as he nudged his nose on the door handle summed it up perfectly. I grabbed a bottle of water before heading to the deck.

The lake’s water near the dock was low and still, stirring only when an acorn dropped from a nearby tree where a squirrel packed away its final stash for the winter. Hints of late afternoon sun filtered through the towering oaks that still clenched some of their vegetation, perhaps as a cloak in anticipation of the deep cold inching closer by the hour. Leaves rustled beneath the elevated cabin as Hammie explored within his allotted space. I leaned on the railing and listened to the distinctive rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker interrupted, or perhaps accompanied by, the chirp of a cardinal warning others that company had arrived.

The temperature dipped quickly as the sun slowly disappeared. “Think it’s time to go in Ham.” A flash of the biscuit brought him running. Two crunches and the treat disappeared. “How about dinner? You getting hungry? Me too.”

After we ate, I closed all the shades and headed to the bedroom to read for a while. Hammie joined me, circling around and plopping down, then pressing his back into my side. I smiled and stroked his shiny coat. With the added warmth and enhanced sense of security, I sent a silent “thank you” to my husband.

###

We settled into a routine over the next few days with the majority of time devoted to my novel. Whenever Hammie wasn’t exploring the enticing animal scents in his designated circle, he curled up at my side with his backend toward me to show his true feelings. His deep sighs made me laugh. I guessed even dogs get bored with my writing.

So far, my plan had come together with only minor interruptions. The final chapter neared completion, yet I was distracted by something. I put the laptop in sleep mode and stood up. Perhaps the tedious attention required to complete the edits or maybe the isolation from human contact was taking its toll, but the continuous hammering by a visiting woodpecker wore on my nerves. I took my cell phone and Hammie onto the deck and searched near the roof for the enemy. I located his head pounding on the side of the cabin. A Pileated Woodpecker, one not often seen back home. My irritation turned to awe.

The sharp red crest and white underwing color of the crow-sized bird deserved to be captured, at least on my phone so I could show hubby upon my return. I needed to get the best angle. “What do you think Ham?” I swear he shook his head no. Ignoring his warning, I contemplated my move. Common sense stepped aside for the risk-taker I had become and I pushed the wooden lawn chair close to the edge of the deck. With the phone in my pocket, I worked my way higher, placing one foot on the top of the chair and the other on the hand railing, steadying myself by gripping the side of the cabin with both hands.
Perfect, I thought, as I focused in on the knocker. Unfortunately, I hadn’t planned on how to balance myself with both hands working the phone’s camera. I tapped the screen, pleased with the result for a nanosecond, until my foot slipped off the railing. My head crashed against the redwood railing, sending stars and instant pain. I plummeted down the fifteen foot drop to the ground, landing on my already injured skull. I screamed as unbearable pain split my skull and sent me into a blackened state.

###

“Honey. Honey, please wake up.”
The whisper of the faded plea stirred in a distant corner of my mind. The pain. Oh, the pain. Why so much pain? I struggled to raise my hand to message my temple, but something weighed my arm down.

“Babe, I’m here.”

I struggled to open my eyes, feeling caught between stages as if coming out of a dream. Where am I? Who’s calling me? As the fog in my brain dissipated, the stabbing leg pain intensified, then my arm joined forces with the excruciating headache. I twisted and how could turned trying to escape the torture.

“Honey, I’ll get the nurse. Hold on.”

The voice traveled closer then faded as I sensed the release of warmth from my hand. Something heavy warmed my left leg. Think, I urged myself. Flashes of memory interrupted the agonizing battle inside my body. Footsteps, rushing around the room, unfamiliar voices shouting commands to each other.
“I thought we’d lost you.” The voice that called me honey choked.

Think harder. People tugging on an arm, tape ripping, alarms. I hear alarms. I’ve heard those before, many times, but where? “Nooo!” This time I heard my own shout as the voices faded away, my futile attempts to stop the drugs from sending me back to the dark place.

###

Six weeks later, with my discharge papers signed, hubby wheeled me to the car. A metal contraption kept my neck in place while my left leg and right arm had progressed to temporary casts. My eyes grew moist as I neared the car. My daughter smiled from behind the wheel. Hammie anxiously bounced up and down in the back seat. An unexpected and welcomed sight.

My husband helped me make the painful transition from chair to car, and then settled into a back seat driver position. The dog wiggled and squirmed until he managed to gently place his nose on my shoulder, the rest of him pressed in the gap between the seats.

“I thought you might like a visit from your buddy. He visited you a few times while you were in the medically induced coma.”

“I felt his heavy body snug against mine, but I thought it was my imagination.” I stroked his furry head in appreciation. My recollection of the accident was limited to memories before the fall. Some things continued to puzzle me, like how my husband got the call after I fell. I glanced at him and started to ask again, but not wanting to test his already frayed patience. He read my thoughts and shook his head.

“Look, I’ve told you everything I know. You’re phone flew out of your hand when you fell and somehow it dialed me. I heard the screams and the continuous bark and knew something bad had happened, so I called the emergency number you left with me.”

Hammie’s eyes met mine and I studied his face for the answer and nodded. “You were right. I shouldn’t have tried it. But how did the phone dial itself?”

The black lab’s lip curled upward.

“That’s his “Elvis” smirk.” My daughter’s laughter filled the air.
“Guess it will be his little secret.” But silently I knew.

My husband’s hand extended toward me, a grin on his face as he handed me the phone. “Great picture of the woodpecker.”

Unexpected Visitor


This story is both humorous and true. Life is full of opportunities to laugh and love. Thanks to my hubby for providing both.

Unexpected Visitor

 

The cushion of the dining room chair has a permanent imprint of my derriere on it from many hours pecking away at my laptop. The large bay window in my living room, clearly visible from where I sit, offers enough room for imaginary acquaintances (also known to some writers as characters) to visit me as I sip a steamy cup of java and contemplate my next chapter. Unlike the coffee table that collects newspapers, magazines and soon-to-be discarded mail, the nook must be clear of distractions for my visionary friends.

There’s one item that owns the right hand corner of the nook, but normally I’m able to ignore its presence. My husband negotiated a place for his weather alert radio, the one that only chooses to blast its warnings while I’m writing an intense scene or when I’m sound asleep in the middle of the night. It purpose is important, but its timing leaves much to be desired.

One gloomy afternoon, tired of winter’s thievery, I gazed through the nearly translucent sheers to the barren yard across the street and imagined the towering maple tree budding out with hints of spring. Bright yellow tulips appeared and the succulent smell of honeysuckle filled my senses. I was nearly in the zone when a foreign object interrupted my view.

I furrowed my brow as I focused in on the intrusive disruption, my mind struggling to accept the unexpected sight. I closed my eyes and opened them again. It was still there. Perhaps it was my husband’s idea of a sick joke, I thought. Regardless, it had to go. I pushed back my chair, taking caution to not make a sound, my eyes locked on the stationary object as I stood in place. The reddish-brown, furry creature looked me straight in the eye and then dashed under the nearby couch.

A squirrel! How could a squirrel be sitting in the alcove of my living room window? I did what came naturally. I yelled for my husband. “Honey! There’s a squirrel!”

“What?” his faded response came from the bedroom.

“A squirrel!” I squealed as I retreated from my visitor.

“Where?” he asked as he dragged himself away from the television.

“In the living room.” My voice elevated to a scream as my knight-in-shining-armor made his way to my side.

“What’s he doing in here?” he asked as he searched the room and saw nothing.

I shot him a glare in response to his silly question. “How would I know?” I pointed to the corner of the room where the anxious animal sought refuge. “He’s under the couch.”

“I’ll be darned. We’ll have to let him out through the French doors,” he said as he moved toward the dining room.

“Great thought, but remember?” I tried to keep from doing an eye roll as I pointed to the doors that lead to our deck. Last month when air was coming in around the door frame, I’d asked him to fix it. His answer to nearly every household problem involved a large roll of duct tape.

He avoided making eye contact with me. Instead, he searched the room and found a plastic gate we use to keep our black, sixty pound grand-dog, Hammie, from exploring the lower level of the house when visiting. The energetic dog is deathly afraid of it and won’t get near it.

“What are you going to do with that?” I questioned.

“You’re going to keep the squirrel from going into the other rooms,” he said as he handed the expandable object to me.

I stifled a laugh as I looked at the wide gaps between the diagonals. “I don’t think this is going to do it.” As silly as the idea was, I held onto it as if somehow it would frighten the squirrel like it does the cautious dog.

Meanwhile, the intruder dashed back to the window seat, trying desperately to escape the maddening conversation, I’m sure. I listened as my husband pulled the tape from the door frame, and I tried to decide what to do if the animal scurried my way, knowing I’d drop the gate and run the other way screaming like a little girl. The noise from the tape being ripped away sent the squirrel dashing back and forth from the window seat to underneath the couch.

A blast of cold winter air greeted me as the patio door opened. My husband returned to the living room and tried to lure the errant critter out from his hiding place. I offered him a broom from the kitchen, still gripping the useless gate. He poked the handle under the sofa sending the critter into the middle of the room. Fortunately, it saw the opportunity to flee and made a direct path out the door onto the deck.

“Should’ve got a picture,” my husband suggested as he watched the animal leap off the deck and out of sight.

“Can you imagine if Hammie had been here?” The vision of the dog charging around the room brought roars of laughter as we went room to room looking for the port of entry. There were no holes in the ceiling or walls. The glass fireplace doors were closed. Nothing appeared disturbed. We surmised that it must have slipped in through a door left ajar briefly earlier in the day when my husband filled the bird feeder.

I shook my head in frustration as hubby resealed the door with more gray tape, resolving he’d be responsible for removing the gummy residue come spring, which couldn’t come soon enough for me.

As I sat back down at my computer, I worried the vision of the squirrel would distract me from reconnecting with my characters. I tried to recreate a mental picture of yellow tulips and green leaves budding from the tree, instead a furry fictional friend introduced himself. “The name’s Zippy. Better get typing.”

 

Anxious that the squirrel might find his way back into the house, my husband decided removal of its nest in the tree would reduce the chance of another visit. Perhaps it would encourage the animal to relocate to a neighbor’s yard, he thought. Using a long pole, he poked the sturdy structure. The squirrel lunged from a nearby branch and charged down the pole to within inches of my husband’s face. He tossed the pole to the ground, barely escaping the attack.

 “Maybe it’s protecting babies,” he surmised. A few weeks later, when there was no sign of activity, he tried again. This time he succeeded, but not without paying a price. As spring made its appearance, the irate squirrel began its revenge. Empty nut shells were deposited all over the freshly stained deck. The roots of nearly every potted plant my husband sat outside were bitten off. When tomato seedlings, carefully nurtured for months in preparation of spring, were planted in the garden, it dug them up. Twine, stored in a box on the deck, was strung across the floor, down the steps and out into the yard. Every day the struggle continued between man and beast.

As spring turned to summer, the battle intensified, sending my husband over the edge. In anticipation of the next attack by the enemy, hubby placed two large, flat rocks on the corner posts of the deck, ready to chase the enemy away at the first sighting. The next morning, both rocks were gone, the heavy objects pushed off the posts into the garden, damaging some plants when they landed. A record number of curse words were used and included a threat to get a pellet gun.

Nothing prepared either of us for the final blow. My amateur horticulturist spouse grows Plumeria plants and had the joy of having a seed pod develop on one of the plants. The unique event entitles the owner to name any successful growth of a new plant from one of the seeds. The process is tedious and often unsuccessful. The crazed animal gnawed the roots off the three remaining six inch stems that had survived months of nurturing. It was official. The squirrel won.

As fall faded to winter and skies turned grey, I needed inspiration for my next story. With new cushions on my dining room chairs and a full pot of coffee brewed, I settled down in front of my laptop and gazed out the bay window hoping to reconnect with my imaginary friends. A disturbing object next to the weather alert radio caught my attention. My eyes locked in on it as I pushed back my chair. It did not move, nor did I scream, but the laughter it brought was loud enough to be heard throughout the house. My daughter, who was blessed with a sense of humor too, left us a gift while we were out. The life-size squirrel statue looks just like Zippy.

 

This was another honorable mention contest winner

Saturday Writers Elements in Writing Anthology #9

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An Invitation


Summer’s winding down, but the memories made will linger. Come with me and revisit your favorite  island getaway, if only in your mind.

An Invitation

Come walk with me on sifted sands

Along my island shores

Come find the peace within yourself

That leaves you wanting more

The gentle swells, the rolling waves

Will mesmerize your heart

The azure skies, the silent breeze

You’ll never want to part

The moon will rise to greet you there

To cleanse your weary soul

The lofty palms will wave to you

And whisper ‘please don’t go’

by Diane M How

Where is your favorite beach? I’d love to hear from you. 

This poem received an honorable mention in a 2014 contest. An Invitation and two short stories, Love Revealed and Autumn’s Predicament, are published in Writing Sense-Ably is Saturday Writer’s 2016 Anthology 

 

 

 

Fireflies and Starlit Skies


Clubhouse
Dozens of flickering fireflies dance merrily among the fragrant cedar trees. The only other visible light comes from the millions of twinkling stars that embellish the midnight skies above me. I can feel the damp fog creep silently into the valley as I listen to the steady hum of the visiting locust and the distant whippoorwills. I drift off into a gentle slumber, dreaming peacefully until a bird’s delightful warble echoes through the woods and greets me at the break of dawn. The enticing smell of bacon drifts in from the nearby kitchen and I open my sleepy eyes. My grandmother stands near the stove, humming and smiling as she turns each strip once it is perfectly crisp. I watch her in awe and wonder if I will ever master the skills necessary to follow in her footsteps. Full of energy and eager to help, I change my clothes quickly and join her near the sink. She instructs me on the proper placement of the knives, forks and spoons as I set the table for breakfast. With two hands, I carry a towering plate of pancakes to the table as my grandmother carries the dish of bacon and sets it down. I run to the refrigerator and grab the maple syrup and creamy butter before the family is called for breakfast. I press my fingers together tightly close my eyes as I thank God for the wonderful day.

So what childhood memories fill your mind when spring turns to summer? I’d love to know.